


Past Grandeur And Greatness

by phantomreviewer



Series: A Thousand Shards Of Pottery [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, M/M, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, museum!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It almost doesn’t matter that Enjolras’ lips are soft against his, and he’s kissing back and that he’s kissing Enjolras in the dust of an ancient house, reaching up over the barrier, a contented Romeo, and he walks in history. </p>
<p>But then Enjolras is reaching out his hands, clasping Grantaire’s face in his hands. And he’s grounded again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Grandeur And Greatness

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Giovanni Francesco Poggio Bracciolini’s _On the inconstancy of Fortune_ because I am a precocious history student who should revising Italian sources of classical Rome. What of it?
> 
> Set after "Fragile- Handle With Care"

Grantaire knows that he and Enjolras have been tiptoeing around each other of late, ever since Enjolras had apologised and kissed Grantaire’s knuckles like he was singlehandedly trying to resurrect long forgotten chivalry.

And the strangest thing is that it hasn’t been awkward. If anything it’s been quite a comfortable situation to slip into; he’s received texts from Enjolras about all matter of things, from the maintenance of ancient glassware to the traffic accident three streets along; Enjolras has stuck his head around the doorway in passing, never saying very long; Cosette has been teasing the pair of them and one time Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bahorel had come charging into the museum with laughter and had mused up Grantaire’s hair as he threw their tickets at them. As much of a nuisance as the three boys had been Grantaire wouldn’t have missed their presence for the world.

The fact they’ve got mutual friends would scare Grantaire, but Enjolras’ friends are his friends too now.

But, they have been tiptoeing around each other, emotionally if not physically, Grantaire knows, but what he doesn’t know is how to return things to the status quo. Or if he wants to.

The museum is closed, and it’s raining. It’s not closed because of the pounding rain, but it’s convenient nonetheless.

There’s only one of the small heaters on and the lights are bright against the back wall. The small sales desk is in darkness, and Grantaire’s jacket has been flung over the empty table. It’s tatty and worn, and for once Grantaire isn’t having to dress for members of the public, and the rougher his clothing the better.

He’s still pulling a full day’s shift, regardless of the closed museum and the beating rain is giving him a headache. He’s sober though, even though he doesn’t have to interact with members of the public. He’s not sure why.

He’s been saying for months that he’d paint some form of mural or design on the plain back wall, and he’s finally been given the go-ahead to take to the off-white walls. His designs -a Roman family in portrait, a soldier, and a Roman dining scene, complete with a Pantheon of the gods above- have finally been approved by his boss, and so today he paints.

The tarps have been thrown over the barrier, and it only takes a work of a moment for Grantaire to vault over the divide to spread the plastic down over the two thousand year old brickwork under the soon-to-be-completed mural. He doesn’t want to accidentally drip paint over the pottery or the flooring, he’d never be forgiven, no matter how good his painting turned out to be. 

He’s just kneeling down in the dust –his jeans are already a lost cause, already sacrificed to paint, so what does a bit of ancient dust matter?- when it occur to Grantaire to be brave.

After he’s sent the text he places his phone down, almost reverently on the two thousand year old not-quite-a-mosaic, the juxtaposition of technologies and cultures delights him. 

Once he throws down the smudged plastic he forgets about his phone, and pulls the pencil out from behind his ear, taking to the wall.

The sketch of the Roman Pantheon is the first to be scrawled on the wall, light lines that he’ll paint over with one coat and the images come easily to him. He doesn’t need his designs, these pictures have been encroached in his mind for months now, and they’re more vivid than he could ever have expected, pale grey against the off-white walls. The benevolent smiles of the gods shine down, all curling hair and upturned noses. 

With the gods looking down on him the Roman dining scene comes quickly, complete with idle slaves and detailing down to the decoration on the mosaic below them – the same design as he’d left his phone on, only two thousand years fresh- and the Roman centurion becomes subsumed into the family portrait. 

Perhaps he’s an uncle, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother-in-law the rich land owner, and looking benevolently on as his beloved sister tames the hair of her children. And maybe Grantaire will be the only one to think of the stories behind the background images, but it brings him pleasure to know what their stories could be.

The preliminary sketches have been completed and Grantaire has _carefully_ carried the necessary paint into the villa to start dashing colour onto the barebones of the mural by the time that the doorbell chimes, and Grantaire is so entranced by his work that he barely turns around.

But he does, because he remembers who he invited, and why.

Enjolras is standing there, rain soaked and as beautiful as the first time Grantaire had seen him, but this time he’s smiling. And smiling at Grantaire.

Grantaire’s shoving the pencil back behind his ear and wiping off the paintbrush against his jeans before pocketing it and crossing the villa. He’s walking delicately, careful not to stand on the artefacts beyond the tarp, but he knows where he’s treating and he’s not looking away from Enjolras.

Grantaire is about half-a-metre below Enjolras, due to the ancient Roman ground level within the roped off museum, and Enjolras is leaning against the barrier like a statue.

Grantaire feels ridiculous looking up at him.

Ridiculous and gormless.

“You’re here.”

Enjolras is looking down at him, and the expression is so painfully fond that Grantaire finds himself biting his lip. 

“You invited me, I texted you back.”

Enjolras is dripping down into the dust at Grantaire’s feet and paint and rain are dappled across his boots.

“Oh, yeah, I did. I put it down somewhere, back there.”

He idly tosses his head back, curls bouncing across his forehead as he gestures to the tarps, where somewhere underneath is the mosaic and his mobile. 

He’s got his hands resting against the barrier between them, and standing below looking up at Enjolras should be becoming awkward, but it’s not. Not yet.

This is like the world’s terrible edition of Romeo and Juliet. 

He hopes not.

No one should aspire to be like Romeo and Juliet.

Despite his suddenly blossoming nerves he can’t help but smile, Enjolras makes a beautiful Juliet, no matter how damped his curls are, not that Grantaire would ever dare say such a thing out loud.

It’s ridiculous standing so far beneath Enjolras; that he’d have to reach up to touch him. Not that Grantaire’s going to touch him. He’s not brave. Dogmatic, but never brave.

Enjolras takes his hand instead, pressing it against the cold metal.

And as much as Grantaire wants to reveal in this, whatever it is, he knows that he really needs to get the next coat down, before he can even think about the finer details. The metaphor of paint for feeling is incomplete, but Grantaire appreciates it anyway. So he conceals his beam of his smile in one paint splattered hand and ducks his head towards the would-be mural.

Enjolras nods, and gives Grantaire back his hand.

“I’ve got to get this done; you’re welcome to turn one of the heaters on if you want to dry out a bit. Don’t go leaving puddles all over the place.”

He can almost hear Enjolras roll his eyes at him - “How very kind.” – but as he treads delicately back to the mural he can hear Enjolras step around the deserted museum and settle himself down.

Maybe it’s rude to ignore a guest, especially one that you’ve invited, but Grantaire never prided himself on his courtesy and it’s ruder still to ignore the fledging art dancing up the walls.

Enjolras can cope.

Under his fingers the painting is coming to life. And there’s paint splattered carelessly over Grantaire’s forearms, and there’s surely specks of red and green in his dark hair, but the ancient ruins are paint free and the image is coming into its own beneath him.

The base coats are dull, but strong, ready to bare the weight of a thousand stares, and the pantheon is shining brightly outwards. And well, if the gods resemble the museum volunteers, and notable donators, and if Apollo is starting to look more and more like Enjolras, well, they’re only impressions of ideas. And who knows what the gods looked like anyway?

(Grantaire likes to think that he does.)

There is the green of Minerva’s eyes, Apollo’s wreath and Bacchus’ tunic running down his wrist. Then he’s wiping the paintbrush still verdant against his jeans and shoving it back into his pocket and lidding the paints at his feet, careful with the spare brushes to leave them just so.

Stepping back, the image is becoming clear, and the colours, so bright against the memory of the cream wall are shining, and despite of the rain pounding on the roof Grantaire feels like he can feel the sun against his face. It must be Apollo.

Enjolras is behind him, waiting. He can hear typing. Enjolras always manages to work on something.

Grantaire’s done for now. The gods have all but dried, faces not quite human, and the family portrait needs a second coat, as does the dining scene, before he can add their details to life. But he can do that later, because Enjolras has stopped typing, and Grantaire turns.

Enjolras is leaning against the barrier again, arms hooked over lazily and casual curve of the spine that goes against everything that the world has taught Grantaire about posh boys and good posture. He looks like he belongs, which is a ridiculous statement to make about anyone in a rundown old museum, especially for Enjolras.

He knows that the paint isn’t going to suddenly leap out and leak its way out of the tins, and yet still he bends, wiping around the edges of the lids, just in case.

“What do you think?”

He takes the green paintbrush out of his back pocket by the bristles and it stains his fingertips green as he places it down.

“Is that me?”

And of course he’s noticed the Apollo.

Grantaire stands, stepping backwards, half to acknowledge the painting from a distance, and half to be closer to Enjolras. There’s no hope of anyone who knows either Grantaire or Enjolras not to see the latter’s face in the golden god. It hadn’t even been completely intentional, and Cosette is going to be unbearable- perhaps as Diana has her shining eyes and full lips he won’t be teased too much- but heaven forbid should Courfeyrac or Feuilly see it. He wouldn’t change it though, even if he wanted to. He couldn’t.

Instead he shrugs, leaning against the barrier next to Enjolras hanging arms, looking up at his handiwork. 

“Don’t feel too special, I couldn’t think of an inspiration for Cupid, so that’s Courfeyrac.”

It’s only as he’s saying it that he realises that it’s true. These people have crawled under his skin, into his job and into his paintings.

Enjolras laughs, and it’s so genuine, and Grantaire has to turn, to see the laugh in action and he looks so happy to see Grantaire, to hear Grantaire. Just to be near Grantaire. In essence he looks as Grantaire feels looking at Enjolras.

And this could be enough.

It’s like Romeo and Juliet all over again, it is the East, and Enjolras is the sun. Which is ridiculous because it’s still raining beyond the thin museum walls and Grantaire is a poor man’s Romeo and no one wants to be Romeo and Juliet because the stars are so beautiful, and they’re all going to be dust anyway.

“Do we need Cupid?”

And if that’s the closest that Enjolras is going to come to, then Grantaire is going to take it, darn the consequences. And he goes up on his tiptoes to press his lips to Enjolras’. It could be awkward, and it is, because Grantaire knows that if he puts a foot out of place then he’s broken a priceless piece of archaeology- oh gods, it’s the samian pottery right next to his foot and he’s dead if he breaks it. It almost doesn’t matter that Enjolras’ lips are soft against his, and he’s kissing back and that he’s kissing Enjolras in the dust of an ancient house, reaching up over the barrier, a contented Romeo, and he walks in history. 

But then Enjolras is reaching out his hands, clasping Grantaire’s face in his hands. And he’s grounded again. 

The kiss is wonderful, and Enjolras’ fingers are in his hair. But it’s not enough.

He has to push back from Enjolras, breath caught in his throat, shallow, heady breathes that Enjolras gives right back to him. Pushes back just enough to clamber over the barrier, it isn’t dignified, but priceless pottery at his feet, and it doesn’t matter how ungainly he is because there isn’t a fence between them anymore, and he needs to get nearer to Enjolras. Because if this is going to happen here- and where else could it happen with them?

He’s got paint on his fingers, and now Enjolras has paint in his hair.

And Enjolras has already spent over an hour here, just waiting for Grantaire, and must have had something better to do with his Saturday, but he’s still here.

In the end Grantaire has to pull away first, leaning back against the outside of the villa barrier, letting the metalwork take his weight because he’s not sure that he wants to try standing without it.

“Lunch. We should do lunch. I’ll buy you chips or something. If you want?”

And Grantaire shouldn’t be hesitant about this, because his sides are still warm from Enjolras’ questing fingers, but he can’t help it. Can’t help but expecting to get burnt from the light of the sun.

But it’s still raining outside, despite Enjolras’ smile.

“As a date? Well, I suppose it’s a start.”

And Grantaire has to laugh, breaking back into himself, and the romantic lilt to the scene has gone. They are just themselves again, Enjolras and Grantaire as opposed to Romeo and Juliet. But Enjolras is still smiling at him 

“A start, he says. I’ll have to try harder next time it seems.”

And Enjolras laughs again. 

He laughs, and he’s happy and taking Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire’s glad that he never removed his keys and wallet from his pocket, risk of paint damage be darned- he doesn’t need to pick up his phone, who else could he want to talk to right not?- because he doesn’t’ want to let go of Enjolras’ hand. He’ll lock the door one handed if he has to, as long as it means that he can keep touching Enjolras. Because Enjolras is touching him.

“Grantaire, you’ve immortalised me in your Pantheon; the least I can do is buy you lunch. As in a date. For a start.”

There’s a kiss pressed against a cheek, and Grantaire imagines it painted on. Soft and gentle. Permanence of stone and the kindness of a sigh.

And it’s a start. 

A start.

History has no beginning, but he has Enjolras.

Enjolras has Grantaire’s fingerprints in his hair, and Grantaire has Enjolras’ kiss against the stubble of his jaw.

It’s a start.

(It’s dark when he eventually finishes the mural, and if Apollo shines in the Pantheon, and the slaves have the light of rebellion in their eyes, well, who’s going to complain? He’s smiling, even as the rain comes down when the mural is finally finished and the villa is dark. And if he has to bite his lip at Enjolras’ responsive text to the camera-phone quality finished article and to his half broken happiness, and if he has to press his paint-tinged fingers to his lips to remember the feel of them against Enjolras’ own, well, the painted figures will keep it secret.)

**Author's Note:**

> It finally happened. And yes, it's sappy and fluffy and full of over the top _Romeo & Juliet_ references with gracious classical illusions and overall self-indulgence. But it is my birthday, and I'm allowed to go over the top, just this once.


End file.
